KW - Chapter 2: Mesmerized

If the number one Key West surprise was the boggling amount of time Sam spent in the pool (see Chapter 1), then the number two surprise was the way he enjoyed a single hour touring the Key West Butterfly & Nature Conservatory on Duval Street. I'd been anxious to go ever since hearing about Jacquie & Brent's tour while they were down visiting, but I wasn't sure how my nearly 5-year-old boy would respond to the suggestion that we stop and smell the flowers. And watch butterflies do the same. It's not that Sam has any sort of hyperactivity disorder: he can be perfectly calm when it's called for. And it's not that I worried he'd have uncontrollable little boy urges to stomp on the poor unfortunate winged insects who'd chosen to land on the cobblestone path in front of him. No, I simply imagined that he'd have no patience for the serenity, no interest in the little miracles — and so I would be managing a child rather than communing with nature.

What I didn't expect at all was that Sam would be awe-struck from the moment we stepped into the greenhouse. Hundreds of butterflies were fluttering among the most beautiful garden walk you can imagine—winding among exotic flowering plants and trees, over a stream and through gazebos. A small butterfly lit on the flowers directly in front of Sam and we crept close to watch it open and close its beautiful wings in the sunshine. Up ahead on the pathway, Grandma and Grandpa motioned for us to come peak into a yellow finch's nest. "Let's go see, Sam" I suggested. Without breaking his butterfly gaze, he answered slowly and quietly, "I'm just going to stay here for a minute." He was mezmerized.

Together, we wound through the conservatory pathway and back twice, watching countless butterflies in flight, at rest, muching on fruit, pollinating flowers — even hatching out of their cocoons (well, we missed the actual breakthrough, but the newborns were still dewy and tentative). The highlight of the visit happened when a Blue Morpho jumped on to my wrist and then agreed to crawl onto Sam's arm, where it hitched a ride for a few minutes. He grinned in happy amazement the whole time. That species (shimmering blue while in flight, but the plain brown of tree bark when its wings are closed) is the featured butterfly of the conservatory, and the staff told Sam it was a sign of good luck that it chose to ride on his arm.

In the gift shop, Sam helped Grandma and Grandpa choose a piece of butterfly art for their birthdays. And we picked up a little postcard of a Blue Morpho. We'll hang it in the bathroom next to the little glass jar of seashells we collected from Madeira Beach in 2006. A little Florida corner to remind us of peaceful holiday moments, of quiet walks together, of amazing sights on distant shores.

KW - Chapter 1: Sam Swims

Sam didn't have to think long and hard about his favourite part of our week in Key West. Was it the Dolphin Research Centre? The Pirate Soul Museum? The Butterfly Conservatory? Was it spending seven whole days playing in the tiki hut and on the ocean waterfront of his grandparents' beautiful RV lot, the centre of their attention — and his mom at his beck & call, to boot? Well, ya, that was all wonderful of course. He wouldn't have missed any of it. But the trip highlights happened at the Bluewater pool. Sam became a swimmer in Key West.

The pool was our first (and last) holiday stop. On day one, Sam was his usual tentative self. No water baby, this one, he claimed the sweeping stairway into the shallow end as his private playground. He was wet, but he wasn't "in the pool."Cautiously, however, he began to test our assertions that the water wasn't over his head at the bottom stair. Just 3 feet deep along the shallow wall, he found he could easily walk about, at least one hand on the side. By the time we packed up, he was expanding his territory, pinning his mouth shut and wading in to nearly-nose deep. Pretty impressive, considering it used to take a full day on Laddie Lane before he'd think about leaving the stairs. We had to coax him out, promising there'd be a lots of time for swimming.

But I had no idea how much time we'd end up clocking at the pool. We went morning and afternoon for the rest of the week, spending 3-4 hours total there each day. And, at that, Sam was always disappointed when it was time to go. On Day two, we brought the pool noodle down and it became Sam's "boat," taking him around the shallow end for hours and finally (horsey style) around the full pool, with one hand on me (I was cast as Elizabeth Swann to his Will Turner for the duration. Believe me, it's more than a little weird to be called "Miss Swann" and to be the object of hours of dramatic infatuation when you're trying to surreptitiously teach your son to swim...). Sam's sustained effort was exhausting, and he fell asleep in my arms almost every afternoon as we lounged in the tiki hut, restoring his energy for a second swim.

On day five, Sam agreed to waterwings—an unthinkable prospect in the past, treated as though they were inflatable concrete slabs, sure to cause swift watery death. Within minutes, he was repeatedly racing the length of the pool thanks to his "muscles," cheering over and over "Canada wins!" He wasn't simply bobbing about: he was "swimming" like he'd been at it all this time. If I tried to offer a suggestion—cup your hands, kick your legs under the water—he'd shout back "I know!" as though he'd been in lessons and had heard it all before. It was a joy and a relief to watch. A joy because he never stopped smiling and laughing, and a relief because I thought he was going to have to be forced to learn to swim ... when he was 10.

By the end of the week, Grandma and Grandpa had Sam jumping in to them, sending huge waves over their heads and soaking his own as well (this, the boy who can hardly stand having his hair washed: oh the horrors of a trickle of water down the face, the terrors of water in the ears!). Grandma laughs that he'll likely end up as an Olympic swimmer now that he's conquered his fears. While he may not become an international champion, he's a champion to me. I'll not miss the look of abject terror, the fingers clawed into my shoulders as we move about the shallow end locked in an uncomfortable embrace. Unexpectedly, our Key West memories mark the divide between the boy who won't swim and the boy who won't get out of the pool.

Sense of Snow

Watching the boys climb these gargantuan mountains—created by plows clearing the parking lot of the nearby public school—I come within a whisper of fully reliving my own school-age delight in the sheer joy of playing in the snow. I wonder how many hours I spent fashioning drifts and banks into multi-room snow forts, imprinting angels on a fresh field of powder, stacking the arsenal for a mock-ferocious snowball fight, and flying down the hills on colourful Krazy Karpets. A good snowfall brought the whole neighbourhood to life—and a bad one promised the thrill of a "snow day," the electrifying news crackling over the kitchen radio as my sisters and I ate breakfast. Who doesn't love snow?

Driveway shovellers. That's who.

We've already hauled some 10 feet of the white stuff out of our way this season, and it shows no sign of letting up. As I write, there is a Winter Storm Warning in effect that forecasts 40-50 cms this weekend. In fact, we're closing in on the city's snowfall record. Now that I have to push it out of the way so that the car can cautiously nose out from between dwarfing drifts, it seems to me that the weather outside is frightful. Perhaps if I saw the snow as Sam and Carter do, as a perfect canvas upon which to paint a new world, I wouldn't be thinking that this winter season has rendered them the "kings of the castle," and me the "dirty rascal" ...

The Hockey Sweater

Jeremy suffered a heart-wrenching moment a few weeks back, when Sam made this stunning announcement out of the blue: "I like the Maple Leafs hockey team, now ... more than the Senators." Betrayed Papa couldn't speak for a moment, but tried hard to remember the tenants of unconditional love as he regained his composure. In the calmest voice he could manage, he enquired, "Why? WHY would you want to cheer for the Leafs instead?" He wasn't prepared for the answer from one so young, but there it was: "I like the Leafs now because they are Caitlyn's favourite team." Ahhhhh. There's a girl involved. A sweet-faced, smiley girl with blonde ringlets. An SK girl whose school cubby is just a few doors down from his. Nearly understandable. But, even still: all of those future father-son hockey cheering moments left uncelebrated flashed before Jeremy's eyes. A Leafs fan! It was almost too much to bear....

But the agony was short-lived. Dropping Sam off at Tracey's the next day, Carter came flying to the door in a Team Canada jersey. "Hey!" says Sam. "You like the Maple Leafs, too?" Well, that explains it. The Team Canada logo is a hockey player silhouette emblazoned on a red & black maple leaf. Not the Toronto Maple Leafs. The Canadian Maple Leafs. And when it comes to Team Canada, the Sens Army and the Leafs Nation are on the same side. Reprieve! It'll be a while yet, it seems, before Sam's interest in impressing the girls overrides his allegiance to father, to city and to (good) hockey....